Dear Anne- A Suicide Letter

I did this for my creative writing for english and thought i'd upload it...

Dear Anne.

I guess I’ll be long gone by the time this gets to you, but I needed to tell someone.

I know we haven’t spoken for a long time. God, it must have been at that fair when we had that disastrous class reunion! Do you remember it? The Ferris wheel broke down when we were at the top and I had that terrible panic attack. That must have been, what, 10 years ago, when we were about 17?

I’m going off topic already, typical, eh? Just, before I blurt it all out, I’m sorry I’m leaving all this for you. I’ve met plenty of people since we last saw each other, lots of people, with some of whom I have formed what could be termed as a ‘friendship’. But in the end, none of them really care. You’re the last person, I feel, that just loved me for who I was. Who even knew who I was. We used to sit by the river that ran by the house, and just talk and talk and talk and it didn’t even matter if we didn’t talk ‘cause I’d feel comfortable with you anyway.

You know, this is gonna sound really stupid, but sometimes, I’d talk to you in my head. When I was in a packed room full of groupies and fans and management and they were all clamouring for my attention and showing off and my phone was ringing and the trousers my stylist had coaxed me into were too bloody tight, I’d imagine you were there, laughing at the ridiculous of it, and how stupid all these people were, in your sensible way. And you know, I’m loving how I can write ‘was’ about all this. ‘Cause I am NEVER going back to that. I’ve got the pills beside me, and you know what, I’m not even scared. I’m lucky, I’m getting out while I’ve still got some degree of sanity left. And remember when we were younger, and I used to think drugs were so cool and fascinating, and you said they were good for nothing? You were wrong, they are good for something. They’re my ticket outta here baby!

And I’m sorry we drifted apart. I started distancing myself from you, and believe me, it wasn’t easy, seeing you drop your head in frustration as I sailed past your greeting, or hearing you sigh as I made up some excuse about why I couldn’t meet you, just so I wouldn’t have to tell anyone I was meeting up with Anne. But it’s hard having people going on and on at you, poking sly digs- ‘I’m not being rude or anything, I’m just curious, but what do you see in Anne? Seriously though?’. I was getting caught up in the whole cool kid lifestyle and you were the girl who didn’t wear make up and went out with her parents and had never been drunk. It didn’t exactly look good, being friends with you. It’s no excuse, you were a better friend than any of them ever were.

But, yeah, I ignored you, but what the h***? You left for America with your dad, only giving me a phone call? 6 years of friendship ending with a phone call? But then again, I could’ve gone and met you, but there was a party that night, and I was too proud to go to you crying after months of carefully avoiding you. I regret that. I should have run to you that night, screw my stupid pride and anything anyone might say. Really, you were cooler then all of them. You didn’t try hard, you didn’t care. But I only see that now, when it’s too late. Now, so often, I think of picking up the phone and giving you a call, but every time I chicken out. It’d be too embarrassing, you seeing me like this. Like the celebrities we used to laugh at- how could they have been that stupid?

It started off with the ‘hipster lifestyle’, going out and drinking every night, hooking up with random boys at parties. I was obnoxious and rude, but inside I didn’t mean any of it, I was still ‘that polite, mature girl’ Holly. I was pretending to be a parody of the party kid, but then I started living it. Mum and dad didn’t really like it, but they figured I’d be too sensible to do anything stupid. So did I, for that matter; I’d tell myself, you’re only young once, don’t go crazy, just have fun- I still convinced myself I could quit whenever I wanted. And I did, for a bit. I took up guitar, and I actually got quite good. A few of my friends and I decided to start up a band; I was on lead guitar, Alex was on drums, Maddy on bass and Ben sang. We played a few gigs at local pubs, but it was generally accepted, even by us, that the band completely sucked. People left and new members joined, until Maddy and I were the only lasting original members. I became the singer, and we started to actually sound vaguely good. We got a good bassist and a good drummer, who doubled as a manager, and started playing gigs at proper venues. Small ones, but a step up from grungy pubs with a load of blokes more interested in their pints then the music. At first the people watching us were just people who’d happened to stumble across our gig that night, but soon we had actual fans that knew the words to our songs and would scream them back at us when we played. I loved it; the adoration of the fans, the adrenalin of being on stage and the cash we earned from each gig.

We recorded an album, and from there were catapulted towards fame. The venues got yet bigger, we got even more fans and we started getting money not only from playing, but from CD sales too. Our album peaked at number 15 in the charts, an amazing achievement for an a bunch of songs I would personally call unimaginative and ‘shouty’.

At this point, I was still loving it. I’d never been an attention seeker, in fact I was probably more of an introvert, but I loved going on stage and being able to go wild. Our band got known for it’s mental live shows. I’d stage dive and get into fights, beating up people and clawing at my own skin. It wasn’t a good night unless I couldn’t remember it. Every night I’d screw myself up, and every morning Maddy and I would wake up and laugh at the craziness of it all, two girls just living the dream. But then the dream started to turn into a nightmare. Maddy and I had a raging argument, which ended with her storming off, promising she would never perform with me again. The band fell apart, and I’d just decided to go home, when I met Jeff.

Jeff was an attractive man in his late 30’s, with gorgeous long silky hair that he kept tied back with a rubber band. I think he once said he had native Indian in him, and I could certainly imagine it. He convinced me that instead of moping and running back home, I should start up a solo career, with him as my manager. We got together a backing band, and he used his contacts to find someone to write some music for me. I was just going to sing and write the songs, but by the time they came back to me, my lyrics had lost any meaning that they’d started with. I was much younger then him, but I soon fell in love with Jeff, and he appeared to feel the same way about me. He’d come out and party with me, but he’d wait in the wings, watching as I got more and more wasted, until eventually it was time for him to butt out his cigarette and get up to carry me home.

We released my first single, and somehow it got sucked up into the charts, peaking at number 11. Fan websites were set up, and I couldn’t go out or walk down the street without people throwing themselves on me, so I stopped going out, and just sat in my flat with Jeff and a few of our faceless adoring ‘friends’, smoking until it was time for the next gig.

I still enjoyed the release of the live shows, but now the magic was gone. These people weren’t really my fans, these people who loved me, and found deep meanings in my lyrics. They didn’t know me, how could they love me? I had fans meeting me and sobbing, fans with tattoos of my name on their arm. I felt like screaming at them, ‘you don’t KNOW me. Don’t waste your time IDOLISING me.’ They’d dedicated their lives to me, to someone who didn’t know them and didn’t give a d*** about them. And my lyrics, well, there was no meaning in my lyrics. Just empty bland words about love and heartbreak, things which honestly I knew nothing about. I could have written something meaningful, something about how lost I felt inside, how cold I felt, how I felt that the only person that was there for me was Jeff, and even he I couldn’t be sure of. But no-one wanted to hear that, and honestly, I didn’t want to admit it.

The newspapers however, seemed to care about me, except in no way was it the sort of care I needed. I stopped reading them, as each day would spawn another picture of me, covered in puke and half naked, passed out on the ground. I became desperate to go home, and would scream at Jeff that he didn’t even love me, he was just using me, and I wanted to leave this life forever. Then he’d hold me and tell me I was the best thing in his life, and if I left it’d break his heart, and I’d be so horrified I’d promise never to leave him. Then, one night, when I was getting ready for a show, Jeff came into my room with a look on his face, and told me my mother had passed away. I began getting ready to leave straight away, but he convinced me it was no good. ‘They don’t want anything to do with you Holly. They haven’t called have they? Or written. They don’t love you anymore. No-one loves you anymore. I’m all you have left. Stay. Do the show.’ And I believed him. Since I had left when the band got big, I’d had no contact with my parents. In my heart of hearts I knew my parents could never not love me, but I was terrified if I left, Jeff would leave me, and Jeff was right, he was all I had left.

That night, I took everything I was offered, I swallowed pills and downed spirits, until I couldn’t even see anymore. I managed to get on stage and jump into the crowd, where I started a fight with a man almost as wasted as me.

A week later, I woke up in hospital. I stayed in there for another week until I was allowed to go home. Two weeks of peace and quiet, and time to really think. I knew what had put me here, in this hospital. I had no-one left that cared about me, but my father was still alive. Maybe or maybe not he had disowned me, but I knew if I turned up on his doorstep, he would let me in. And Jeff? Jeff had been the one who’d pushed me on stage that night. Any sane person could have told you I was in no way fit to go on, but he pushed me up there anyway. Maybe he didn’t give a d***, but he had been wrong, there was still someone else who cared about me. And that was me. I checked myself out of hospital a day early, and ran back to the flat I shared with Jeff. He would be out, I knew, drinking at the pub with his friends as he did every Sunday. I threw a bunch of clothes together, and was looking for a suitcase when I came across one I hadn’t known we’d had. I pulled it out and unzipped it, and out tumbled bundles of letters. I raked through them, and they were all the same, all written in either my mother or fathers handwriting, all addressed to me. I fell to the ground, and pressed my face against the cool floor. They did care, they did care about me. I waited until the hurricane in my mind slowed down, then heaved myself up and started to sift through them. I started to read them, my eyesight blurring as tears clouded my vision, and drops dripped down, blurring my parents desperate words. I don’t know how long I sat there, reading letter after letter after letter, until my tears dried out and all I could do was sob as everything shattered around me.

I didn’t hear the door open. I didn’t see Jeff standing there. ‘Hey Holly, baby.’ I started, and stared up at him. Tears blurred my vision again, but these were tears of rage. ‘I’m out of here’, I screamed, ‘To H*** with you, to H*** with you.’ He stepped towards me, ‘Hey, hey, honey, don’t freak out. It was for your own good, you know. You might have left me if you read them. I can’t live without you, baby.’ I scrambled to my feet and instinctively moved backwards, away from him. He stepped forwards again, ‘Baby, I called the hospital to talk to you, but they said you’d gone. I needed to tell you… your Dad’s dead, baby. You can’t leave now.’ I stared at him, uncomprehending. ‘You’ve got no-where to go, baby. We can keep going, just you and me, same as always.’ I jerked backwards away from him. He had to be lying, it couldn’t be true. Of course he was lying. But he couldn’t lie about that. He would know I would find out if it wasn’t true. I shook my head, shaking it as hard as I could, trying to clear my mind, the pincers that were invading, coming to squeeze my brain… Jeff walked up to me, his arms wide open. I started to shake, and as Jeff took another step towards me, I roared at him, squeezing every last drop of pain and hate out of my mind and into my body, and pushed him as hard as could. He stumbled backwards with a look on confusion on his face. And then he slipped on the piles of letters on the floor, and keeled over backwards. There was an thud as his head hit the wall, and then silence.

Don’t worry, he’s not dead. I can’t tell if that’s a good thing. Not that it really matters any more. Maybe he won’t wake up, maybe he should have hospital treatment, but whatever happens, he won’t wake up soon enough to stop me.

Maybe if we’d stayed in touch, I’d be in a different position now. Or maybe you would have abandoned me like everyone else. That sounds bad, but you know, the amount of times I’ve wondered, if you ever saw me on TV or in newspapers and remembered me. Or maybe you got your childhood dream, and now you’re living in a log cabin in the woods with no electronic stuff, except maybe an old radio, with a beautiful husband who carves stuff in the out house while you tend your vegetable garden. Ironically enough, that’s what my dream is now too. The Ultimate Irony, I’ve ended up envious of you, ‘boring Anne’. Even if you didn’t get your dream, and you’re just living in some faceless suburban house somewhere and no-one outside your neighbourhood knows who you are. I’d do anything for a life like that.

But here I am, in this ugly, cold, filthy excuse for a house, with a passed out psychopath in the front room, and a suitcase full of letters from two dead people. I don’t think it’s really hit me yet, you know, everything. I’m just feeling... blank. Like nothing matters anymore. It’s true enough though, nothing does matter anymore. It’s funny, I’ve always been terrible at swallowing pills, ‘the dramatic end’, with me coughing and spluttering as I try and shove them down my throat. Whatever. Anyway, again, I’m sorry it had to be you, but there was no-one, no-one else in the world, that would genuinely give a s***. I hope you did get your dream, and I hope you’re happy. Live your life for both of us.

Your biggest fan,

Holly

Subscribe

Get Teen Ink’s 48-page monthly print edition. Written by teens since 1989.